Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  “You got a place to stay?” the kid asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You come stay with me till you find yourself a room or a woman. Tomorrow afternoon we get you an electric guitar and then you and me, we gonna make us a bunch of money.”

  The map man was right. Anything Red needed was right here in Jewtown.

  “Say, what’s your name?” asked Red.

  “Walter. Walter Jacobs, but the boys ’round here call me Little Walter.”

  TWO

  • • •

  “Fishin’ Pole”

  LEONARD

  Leonard parked his beat-to-shit Buick at the corner of Cottage Grove and Pershing on Chicago’s South Side. He walked down the broken sidewalk cluttered with the previous night’s empty pints and beer bottles.

  “Morning, ladies.” With a tip of his hat Leonard greeted the whores who worked that block.

  “We been waiting for you, sugar,” said one of the girls, running a finger down her cleavage.

  “Not today, girls. Not today.”

  A few doors down, a man looking like he’d slept in his clothes smiled on the sly and mumbled, “Got a girl and a boy, Leonard. A girl and a boy.”

  One meant cocaine, the other was heroin, but Leonard never remembered which was which. “Not today, man. Not today.”

  Leonard crossed the street, pulled a key from his pocket and undid the padlock on the Macomba Lounge. He threw open the door and flipped on the lights. What a shithole. A long narrow room with a bar on one side, booths on the other, some crappy tables near the bandstand, a rib-pit kitchen in the way back. The place reeked of smoke and booze. The janitor hadn’t come by yet so the joint was full of empty glasses, beer and whiskey bottles, overflowing ashtrays and cigarette butts floating in a sea of spilled liquor on the bar.

  Leonard was picking through the slop when Phil showed up, the brim of his hat shading his eyes, first cigar of the day already clamped in the corner of his mouth. Phil was shorter and stockier, but no doubt they were brothers. Same light brown hair, same prominent nose and high forehead.

  “I gotta put an order in this morning,” Leonard said to him. “We’re down to two cases of Old Crow and one of Old Grand-Dad.”

  “Better have ’em bring over some more gin and vodka, too.”

  Leonard and Phil had opened the nightclub a little over a year before, after Phil came home from the war. Leonard would have joined the army, too, if it weren’t for his heart. They 4-F’d him—not fit to serve because of a weak valve. Bullshit—he could have done it. He’d been running a liquor store down on South State Street and that took plenty of guts, too. Leonard had seen it all there: shoplifters, drunken brawls, holdups. Once he knew Phil was on his way home from the war, Leonard had sold Cut-Rate Liquor and got his ass out of there. Opening the nightclub seemed like a step up. They’d found a run-down restaurant in the heart of the Black Belt—Chicago’s Negro neighborhood—but that didn’t bother Leonard or Phil. Their father’s junkyard had been in a colored neighborhood and, besides, property was cheaper in that part of town.

  “Did you check under the stools yet?” Phil asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Phil propped his cigar in his mouth and flipped the first bar stool upside down, looking for drugs. The dealers kept their cocaine, heroin, uppers and downers taped under the stools in case the cops showed up and frisked them. Problem was that usually by closing time some of the dealers were so strung out they’d forget to take their drugs with them. Checking the bar stools had become as much a part of opening up as turning on the lights.

  “Bingo.” Phil held up a package of powder. He went down the bar and checked the rest. They were clean, so he went to the john in the back and flushed it. Phil didn’t want that shit lying around. Neither did Leonard, but it came with the territory.

  The other clubs closed down around two a.m., but that was when the Macomba was just getting going. They booked a lot of good acts and word got around. Other musicians came in after their gigs at other clubs. As far as Leonard was concerned, as long as people were coming through the door, they’d keep the Macomba open till dawn. Even if it meant shelling out a few twenties to make the cops look the other way.

  The club was doing all right, but it wasn’t bringing in the kind of dough Leonard wanted. And he wanted a whole lot of dough. Back when he was nineteen and so in love he couldn’t see straight, he’d wanted to marry Shirley Adams, but her father said Leonard would never amount to anything and made her break it off. That changed everything for Leonard and sent him on a quest. He could thank Shirley’s father for his drive, his ambition. Even now, more than ten years later, when he was married to Revetta with three kids, he still had this need to prove himself. He wasn’t going to let anyone think of him as a loser ever again.

  Leonard looked around the room and thought about how much he’d come to hate the goddamn nightclub business. The hours were long; the crowd was rough and raunchy. He wanted out, and since he’d gotten Phil into this mess, he had to get him out, too.

  Leonard always kept his ears open, which was how he’d found out about Evelyn Aron and Aristocrat Records. She was a Jewish broad who’d started a record company with her husband’s money. The label was struggling and Leonard saw an opportunity. He’d been holding off, waiting for the right moment to approach her, and looking around the decrepit club, he decided now was the time. He reached for the telephone behind the bar and pulled a matchbook from his breast pocket. After he lit a cigarette he looked at the telephone number scribbled inside the cover. Two more puffs and he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Got an act down here you gotta come see,” he said.

  “Who is this?” Evelyn Aron asked.

  “Leonard Chess. I got a club—the Macomba Lounge. Maybe you heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “If you’re in the record business, lady, you gotta know about us.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Leonard. Leonard Chess. I gotta—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chess, but I really have to—”

  “Wait. Don’t hang up.” Leonard drew down hard on his Lucky Strike. “You gotta come see this kid playin’ here tonight. I guarantee you ain’t seen nothin’ like him.”

  “And what’s so special about this kid, Mr. Chess?”

  “He’s gonna be a star.”

  Tom Archia was a sax player and singer who was starting to make a name for himself. People came into the club asking where they could buy his records. Leonard wanted to record him before someone else did. He saw recording Archia as his way out of the nightclub, and if Evelyn Aron came along with the deal, then so be it.

  • • •

  Later that night Evelyn Aron walked into the Macomba. Leonard took one look and knew it had to be her. She was the only white woman in the joint and she was wearing the largest goddamn diamond ring he’d ever seen, along with a fancy-schmancy dress that probably cost more than his customers made in a month. She was pretty, though, a redhead with alabaster skin, not a single freckle. She was about Leonard’s age, maybe a few years younger—late twenties, he figured. The regulars were sizing her up and she had a glazed, uneasy look in her eyes that told him she was scared, and when he went over and introduced himself she seemed both relieved and shocked.

  He laughed. “You thought I was a Negro, didn’t you?” People always thought that after talking to him on the phone first. When Leonard arrived from Poland he was only eleven and didn’t speak English. Growing up, he was always around colored people—hanging out with them at his father’s junkyard and on the fringe of Lawndale where a few Negro families lived. White, colored, Leonard didn’t care. He wanted to fit in and not sound like an immigrant. He studied the way people talked, mimicking their phrasing, picking up the slang, so that over time, even though he still spoke Yiddish, Leonard Chess sounded more like a S
outhern Negro than a Polish Jew.

  “Admit it. You did think I was colored, didn’t you?”

  “No, no, no.” Evelyn’s cheeks were beginning to match her hair color.

  “C’mon, relax.” He laughed.

  She didn’t. He’d heard that she was one of those uppity German Jews, the kind that looked down on those who came over from Eastern Europe. He reminded himself that he didn’t have to like her—this was business. So he got her a drink and showed her to a table near the stage. He noticed that at some point she had turned her wedding ring around so no one would be tempted by the stone.

  It was showtime and the boys took to the bandstand, where Archia’s shiny brass saxophone rested in the stand, waiting for him. He had a drummer, bass player and piano player with him. They opened with a number called “Jam for Sam.” Bouncy as hell. Halfway through, Leonard saw the sweat beading up on Tom’s forehead and spit bubbling up from his mouthpiece. The piano player was on his feet, his ass hovering a good six inches above the bench, fingers flying up and down the keyboard, while the drummer circled the skins with his brushes. The guy on the upright bass leaned in, his ear close to the fingerboard before he straightened up and spun it around real fast on the tail spike. The crowd loved it, dancing in their chairs, shoulders shimmying, fingers snapping. Leonard glanced at Evelyn to gauge her reaction. She was right in there with the rest of them, nodding, her fingertips tapping out the beat.

  There was a burst of applause as Archia moved into the next number, singing about his “fishing pole.” He was making eyes at the women who were swooning near the bandstand and each time he talked about his “long, long pole,” Leonard saw Evelyn Aron blush.

  Tom Archia was still singing when Leonard went over to her table, pulled out a chair and flipped it around to sit sailor style. “So what do ya say, Evelyn? You wanna partner up and make a record?”

  “With you?” She looked amused and took a cigarette out of her gold case, waiting for Leonard to offer her a light. “Why on earth would I partner with you?”

  “Because it’s the smart thing to do.”

  “How so?” She shot a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. If she was still nervous she was doing a hell of a job of hiding it just then.

  “Take a look around this club,” said Leonard. “You see all these people in here? They love race music, but nobody’s putting out records for them. That’s where you and me come in.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Chess.”

  “What, you gonna keep recording the Sherman Hayes Orchestra and that polka player?”

  She took a puff off her cigarette and shook her head as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Let me tell you somethin’, lady. Your label, Aristocrat, is going down the tubes. It’s a goddamn joke.”

  “Then why, Mr. Chess, would you waste your time with my failing label?”

  “Because I can help you. You’ve already shelled out the dough for a license with the musicians’ union and you’re set up. The problem is you’re recording the wrong music. I can turn your label around.”

  “And do you know anything about making records?”

  “No. But you’ll teach me.”

  “Just like that, huh?” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Chess, but I think I’ll pass.”

  With that she stood up and walked out of the club.

  • • •

  Leonard thought he’d blown it, until one night a few weeks later when Evelyn Aron came back to the Macomba Lounge.

  “Would you look at that?” Leonard nudged Phil, watching her flit in like she was a regular. Not a hint of hesitation as she marched up to the bar.

  “Hello, Leonard. Nice to see you again.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I saw that Tom Archia was playing here again tonight. I thought I’d come give another listen. You don’t have any objections, do you?”

  “Be my guest. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  She ordered a dry martini and turned her back to Leonard while she leaned against the bar and watched Tom Archia and His All Stars perform. Leonard was trying to get a bead on Evelyn when two thugs up front started shoving each other back and forth.

  Here we go again.

  Before Big Gene, the doorman, could step in and break it up, Leonard saw one guy reach in his pocket and pull out a penknife, the overhead spotlights bouncing off its shiny edge. The band played through it while several women screamed, grabbed their pocketbooks and headed for the door. Plenty of men left, too. The first knife fight of the evening and half the place cleared out. But Archia and his boys were still performing. Leonard would have expected Miss Prim and Proper to flee, but damn if Evelyn Aron didn’t stick around, even ordered another drink.

  The bouncer got rid of the fighters and when the band finished their last set Evelyn waltzed up to Archia with her business card and was out the door before Leonard could confront her. When Leonard asked Archia what Evelyn wanted, Archia snapped the latches shut on his sax case and said, “She’s gonna record ‘Fishin’ Pole.’”

  The next morning Leonard went down to the Aristocrat office—if you could call it an office. It was a small space adjacent to a paint store on South Phillips Avenue that Evelyn’s husband owned. The room was cluttered with boxes of pressed records and stacks of Billboard and Cash Box magazines. And while the front of the building reeked of paint, all Leonard could smell as he headed toward the back was Evelyn’s perfume.

  “Well, this is certainly a surprise.” Evelyn looked up from her desk as he stormed through the doorway.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Can I help you with something, Leonard?”

  He was frosted and if she’d been a man he would have thrown her up against the wall. “What are you gonna do with Archia after you record him, huh? You think you’re gonna sell a Tom Archia record? You think your rich country club friends are gonna listen to race music? Huh, do you?”

  Evelyn didn’t say anything. He saw a faint vertical line form between her eyebrows.

  “No white record store is gonna sell a Tom Archia record,” he said. “Nobody you know is gonna listen to ‘Fishin’ Pole’ on their radio or put it in their jukeboxes. Now, I happen to know the people who can sell a Tom Archia record and I know the motherfuckers who wanna buy it, too.”

  Evelyn splayed her hands flat down on the desk as if admiring that colossal ring. He noticed a raspberry rash coming up on her neck. She raised her eyes. “Very well, Leonard. What is it that you want?”

  What did he want? He wanted to buy his wife a ring as big as Evelyn’s. He wanted to get his brother out of that godforsaken club. He didn’t want anyone like Shirley’s father to ever call him a loser again. “I want a cut of the action,” he said. “I wanna be a record man.”

  • • •

  Two weeks later, after the Tom Archia records were pressed, Leonard stood next to Evelyn in her office while she flipped through a clipboard of papers. “I’ve done some research,” she said. “And I’ve drawn up a list of accounts for you.”

  Leonard read along over her shoulder, running his hand back through his hair. This was bullshit.

  “Now, here are the distributors who sell to jukeboxes,” she said, trailing a red fingernail down the page. “Here’s a list of record stores and—”

  “Let me handle this, would you?”

  Evelyn dropped the clipboard to her side and jutted out her hip. “And how exactly are you going to handle it? Do you have a list?”

  “I don’t need a goddamn list. You want this record to sell? Then let me take it to the people who can sell the motherfucker.”

  “I absolutely hate it when you use that kind of language with me.”

  “I know you do.”

  She clamped her jaw shut. She was seething.


  “Look,” said Leonard, “there’s a market for Archia. So let me go out there and make something happen.”

  “You are so cocksure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  He had to admit that yeah—hell yes, he was sure of himself. He didn’t know where this confidence came from. He was no more qualified to sell a record than she was—in fact, she was a hell of a lot more qualified than him. But he had a gut feeling he could do this. “You can’t afford to blow this chance, Evelyn. Now just let me sell the goddamn record.”

  “Okay, fine. We’ll try it your way.”

  Leonard brushed past her, loaded up his trunk with Archia’s “Fishin’ Pole” and took off in his bucket of bolts. He had salvaged the Buick from his father’s junkyard, put a few dollars into the engine and got the thing running. It looked like hell with its cracked leather seats, stuffing popping up through the corners. The ashtray was overflowing and the windows needed washing. But it was temporary. He promised himself that one day he’d own a new Cadillac and he’d keep it in mint condition.

  Leonard was still steaming over Evelyn as he drove deep into the city’s South Side. He didn’t like her and she didn’t like him, but they needed each other. He tuned the radio dial to WGES, one of the only stations that devoted a little airtime each day to race music. The Dozier Boys were playing and Leonard snapped his fingers to the beat. Now, that was Negro music. White people didn’t get it. And for sure Evelyn didn’t.

  Leonard understood that when Negroes came up from the South it was no different from when he arrived from Poland. The Negroes came by train, and his family by ship, but it was the same thing. The Jews in their shtetls were just like the coloreds on their plantations. When Leonard heard guys from the South describe their sharecropper shacks, he thought they sounded like his home back in Motele—three rooms, no heat, no hot water, no electricity. His father had brought them to America seeking a better life. It was the same for the Negroes coming north. Only life wasn’t always easier in Chicago, whether you were a Negro or a Jew. White America didn’t want either one of them here, which was why Leonard felt more comfortable with coloreds than with most white people. Evelyn Aron, Miss Hoity-Toity, would never understand. She’d been born in this country. She’d told him that her family had come over from Germany sixty years ago. She didn’t know what it meant to arrive in a new city, let alone a new country, kiss your old life good-bye—no matter how shitty it was—and start over.